


In Between

by writeswhentime (334053)



Category: The Closer
Genre: Dreams, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, I'm Bad At Summaries, Loss, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Finale, Relationship(s), Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-21 06:30:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4818689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/334053/pseuds/writeswhentime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things change. For Sharon Raydor at least.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Friday, 6:53 p.m.

**Author's Note:**

> A story idea that kept bugging me, written just to get this out of my head. Plenty of experimenting and firsts. And no Beta (what a shock!). But I hope someone reading will get something out of this too. :)
> 
> This is a test post on AO3. My first story for the show. R/R if you have the time. TIA.

Today is the last day. The last day with some sense of normalcy. For the past four days things have disintegrated thread by thread. Thus normalcy has been rare currency in the past week. Everything is changing and everyone know nothing will be good again. Nothing will be right again. Maybe they all hate change a bit too much.

Luckily she has the whole week to come to terms. She has been ordered to do so. Lucky, lucky her.

As much as the Captain has been trying to remain sarcastic and defiant through the day, the first touch of direct sunlight strips that away. Outside it's sun, color and air and Sharon. Sharon, who feels a little overwhelmed. Overwhelmed meaning indecisive, dull, sad, excited, terrified and tired as hell. 

It has been a long, long day. One of those days. All she wants to do is to walk into a bar, drink enough to get drunk and go home with a complete stranger. Wild, sweaty, mindless heat is what she wants to find. 

She won't, but she likes the idea. 

A good drink — a good hangover — might be good enough. That she can manage.

Possibly. 

Before she can decide on a heading an incessant buzz takes over her head making it hard to think. The kind of buzz that threatens to come out through your eyes. Crying out on the streets isn't her idea of good night, so she bunches her arms, tight, in the hope that the pressure will make her watertight.

On the downside that gets her into thinking about her breathing. Which in turn makes her mad at the ragged, uneven quality she can't control. 

"Captain."

She keeps her eyes on the passing traffic. The people moving in the park. The sunset gold starting to paint the highest windows. The hum in her head, the sting in her eyes.

"Captain!"

Maybe if she closes her eyes she'll disappear. 

"Captain!"

Maybe not. 

She can't say she recognizes the steps, but she recognizes the pissed-off voice. If it's work, she'll tell him to stuff it. If it's not, she'll tell him to stuff it. With a fist. 

The thought makes her smile and swipe the feel of tears away. 

To Lieutenant Andrew Flynn a smile, no matter how poor, is an invitation to come over, she finds. 

His tone turns softer and velvety, complete with a warm palm cupping her elbow.

"You okay?"

"Hands off, Lieutenant!"

She doesn't need his concern nor his pity.

"Okay." If that's his hurt tone, she decides not to care. "Good night, Captain."

Now that she knows there's someone there, the sound of steps is easier to pick out. She counts the one, two, three... fourth step going away, but a fifth one never comes. He's looking at her, he has to be. 

Not a minute later three steps come closer.

"Going somewhere nice?" 

She sighs so deep it seems to stem from her toes. "Bar. Any bar. Nice or not."

Something in the answer strikes a nerve with him since his stance only solidifies. His hands push deep into the pockets of his pants. 

A man passes them, slipping straight through the three feet between them. Flynn shoots daggers after the idiot. While doing that, he nearly misses the ragged breath coming across those three feet. 

"Do you need a ride?"

She scoffs.

"Was that a —", Flynn pauses to make a sarcastic scoff of his own, "— yes, or —", again with the sound, "— no?"

The answer is elusive, so she looks at her toes. Shoes need a little love. The leather at the toe has a little crack if you know where to look. She blinks away the wet blurriness.

"Yeah, come on, I'm driving you."

The corner is just as surprisingly quiet as it always becomes at this time of night. The civilians have gone long hours ago. Most of the officers have made their escape the best they've could. The rest, the essentials, are tied up inside. Coming and going is not something you do at half past eight on a Fridays night if you can avoid it. The evening feels quiet even if it never is in a big city. 

The Captain's lack of movement makes Flynn search for ideas. Touching is out of question. He can't order her. Or, he can, but she'll bit his head off. He isn't prone to coaxing. 

A group of loud, young women stumble across the street and along the sidewalk towards them. They smell of sickly sweet sugar and alcohol, even at the distance of yards and yards. The warm shift of air carries too much detail. He needs to get her out of the way.

Two of the women trip together, the pack scatters with uncontrollable giggles. That, until they notice the old folks blocking half the way. The collective hitch in their steps and the wide-eyed stares mark the realization. Flynn steps closer to Raydor's back allowing the women to circle them with a wider berth. They do, under an uncharacteristic hush. 

Two steps after they burst into spontaneous laughter.

Flynn rolls his eyes. He is starting to see the insane aspects of all this. Better by the minute. They're not necessarily all funny, though. 

He takes the plunge, steps firmly into the Captain's space, gestures for the direction. When his hand settles in the near vicinity of her back — not touching, hovering an inch away — she shifts her weight. Him trying a step makes her instantly to fall suit. 

She lets him usher her somewhere. She doesn't even know; she doesn't pay attention. All concrete looks pretty much the same. 

They don't stop until coming to shiny brown metal. His left hand hovers even as the right hand fumbles for a key. Only when he leans across her to unlock the car door, does she feel the weight of his hand on her back. 

He opens the door, steps back. She stands, arms bunched and stares. Straight ahead. 

"You don't want to go?"

A blink ushers a trace of moisture on her lower lashes. Shaking her head doesn't help and she masks the effects by taking the offered seat. 

"Are y—"

Before he can finish whichever humiliating question he has in mind, she shuts him up by snatching the seat belt. When it clicks locked and she resumes her staring with bunched arms, Flynn realizes he might be gawping. He slams the door shut and quickly rounds the car.

He's barely touched his own seat belt when she clears her throat. 

"She didn't even talk to me."


	2. Friday, 10:26 p.m.

His hands are soft, she notices. Not soft like baby's skin, but soft like good peaches. She watches them loosely curving around a glass of soda. He watches her. 

Neither one has been very talkative. In fact, they probably didn't say more than a dozen words to each other since he offered her that ride. It is a blessing. She doesn't know what to think. Oh, she has plenty of ideas what not to think, but... When it comes to the situation here and now, her mind draws a blank. 

Flynn surprises her. He is quiet and solid. Safe, she'd like to say. Pride prevents her from saying this, he, is good for her soul. Pride, or too little drink. 

She shakes her head and takes another sip. 

Flynn's eyes burn her skin. During the first two drinks at the table Sharon tried to read his look. Sometimes she thought there was curiosity, other times something resembling concern. Slowly she gave up on glancing his way, not willing to see whatever it was he saw. No, looking at the swirling liquids in front of her was better. 

He has to know his scrutiny makes her uncomfortable since periodically he shifts to take in the bar. Sometimes she thinks he forgets that, but she doesn't comment. Like now. He's stared at her for several minutes straight. An idle thought crosses her mind. Maybe she's getting drunk. 

Still she drinks while he watches.

"So you gonna miss her?"

He never asked who she meant by 'her'. She would be offended if all their lives weren't so tragically affected by said 'her'.

Her first response is a snort. "Like the Sun." 

"She's special." 

The tone drips... what? Consolation. Pity and damn understanding. 

Her mind fills with snarky comments about special Olympics and snowflakes. All of them get masked in another snort.

That's the extent of the conversation they both need before silence surrounds them. 

She drinks, he watches. 

At some points Andy looks at the row of empty glasses separating them. He scrunches his nose and leans forward. Sharon watches him pinch three glasses between thumb, index and middle finger. Two empty shot glasses clink together. What good it does to have them stand on the edge of the table instead of in a row at the middle is a mystery. 

Distastefully, he flicks and dries his fingers. Maybe because of the residual alcohol. Maybe because of the sticky remains of her lipstick.

"You shouldn't be here," she mumbles. 

"I want to."

It's sweet of him to lie.

"You don't want me to be alone."

"No," he admits and she switches on to a new glass. 

Were she a bigger bitch, she would have a word about letting her line up drinks. His gaze seems to say the same. 

"No," he repeats. "But I want me to make you not alone."

She smiles in the way that has emasculated plenty a cocky officer. "Eloquent." 

Instead of nursing this drink, she sits up straighter, breathes in the stinging warmth of the alcohol between sips. Still he watches her, but this time Sharon purposefully looks for an eye contact to challenge him. He isn't challenged at all.

Their silent battle wages for half a drink. Flynn wins when Sharon gets interested in the bottles behind the bar. 

Still he watches her while she drinks.

When she starts motioning for another drink, Flynn jumps up. Her raised finger floats in the air. 

"Okay, we're leaving."

"Excuse m—me?"

Scrutinizing eyes travel the length of her form. What of it is visible.

"You weigh what, one-fifteen... no, probably more like one-four-five with that muscle, five's plenty for you." 

Sharon stares at him, her gaze a mixture of disbelief and displeasure. He remains unaffected, impassive.

"Hate to tell you Flynn, but your chivalry needs a little more work."

He hums, turns to pick up her coat from the seat beside him. At which point he ended up with it, Sharon can't recall. Perhaps when they moved from the bar to here? 

And was it really five drinks? She thinks it actually might have been six. The first one, a shot, she downed the moment she walked in. Back then she was of the assumption she was going to drink alone. Then he had followed her in and wordlessly they moved from the bar to a table.

The coat gets thrust in her line of sight. Patiently he waits until she agrees to take it. 

"Well," she draws out shrugging into her coat, "I was always going to take a stranger back to my place." Straightening her collar she tries a tremulous but — what she hopes — flirty grin. "You'll do."


	3. Friday, 11:21 p.m.

They ride towards her place in silence. Sharon thinks the silence as more of the awkward rather than the comfortable kind. How to break it remains a mystery. Occasionally she wonders why she even sits in this man's car. The beat-up department car of one Lieutenant Andy Flynn. The Lieutenant Flynn who doesn't like her. The Lieutenant who opposes her at every turn. Flynn who talks with her about kids at Christmas and jokes with her while dog sitting. Andy who is a recovering alcoholic and still spent the past two hours sitting in a smelly bar watching her drink.

What is she supposed to think? Especially after that stupid joke she tried as they were leaving. What possessed her!

What if he didn't get it was a joke? Her humor could be dry. 

Oh God. 

Her head hums, her ears ring with a rush of blood. She closes her eyes, swallows.

When the buzz refuses to die, she admits she might be drunk. Drunk means no crying. Which is good. But drunk makes her unpredictable. Jack, back when she still drank with him, always mocked her being either a sulky or a slutty drunk. The latter was said with some love, and definitely much enjoyment. The sulky moods he appreciated less. Teary and sad went down even worse. 

Today she is pretty sure the slutty part was not thanks to the drink as much as it was to the company. She hopes. 

She keeps hoping when at the garage Flynn appraises her and pats her knee. He rounds the car, pulls her up by the arms. He looks serious. 

He settles her against the car. Her weight falls back and she feels trapped. He doesn't let go of her right arm. Her breath catches when his eyes bore into hers. He spreads his stance. She grabs onto his hand. He leans—

"You remember jokes," she gasps, "right?"

He stops and frowns. Then he leans further across. She tries to climb up the car. 

"Look," he sighs and slams the door closed. His right hand rests on the handle. "I don't care what weird-ass female thing you and the Chief —"

"Brenda. Call her Brenda."

"Okay, whatever weird-ass female thing you and Brenda had going on, but I'm pretty sure getting slammed and making stupid-ass choices isn't the way to go."

She grins. Angling one hip closer to his hand she wiggles her eyebrow. "So you're an ass man?" 

"You're an annoying drunk," he huffs. And pulls his hands away. Both. Very deliberately. 

"Better that than beligrant," she mutters.

Ha! Maybe she is not that drunk, that was some pretty complicated word. 

Mildly proud of her brain-tongue coordination, she lets him push her off the car and along the garage towards the elevators. Her walk is steady enough; she could have had that one more drink, eas—

"It's 'belligerent'."

Oh. She was pretty sure she said that. That's what she meant anyway. But her walk is good.

With both hands he pulls her out of the way of a passing car. Two stumbling steps later Flynn locks an arm around her waist.

At least she's not slutty.

Inside the elevator he balances her against a mirrored wall. Still she almost trips when the car moves. 

He catches her again with gentle reproach. 

"Next time you plan on turning your legs purely ornamental, could you do it in flats."

"Oh," she answers flippant, "when my legs are purely ornamental, so are the heels."

He clears his throat and looks at the floor.

Well, on the positive she's still not crying. 

Flynn's hard to read. He doesn't speak much, but sometimes Sharon's addled brain senses some amusement from him. And he is cordial, like now, taking her purse. 

Flynn fumbles through Sharon's purse. The organization surprises him. Everything has its place, every pocket is closed and not too full. The keys hang from a chain, partly stuck under a hardcover notebook. He fishes them out, opens the door for her. 

She stops to stare the dark condo. He pushes the keys back into her purse. 

"I should change the curtains."

"Do you have someone?" he asks steering her inside. "Boyfriend?" he cues flipping on the lights. 

Flynn turns to take in the den and the woman gently swaying and staring at the windows. She tilts her head almost like she hasn't been there before.

"Uh... Someone?" he tries again. "You got kids, tho, right?" 

"Weekend mom for years," she answers. She lacks the lucidity to catch the 'uh' and the pause before 'someone'. 

"Jack— ?"

She almost laughs at his disbelief, but settles for gesturing towards the graduation photos on the credenza.

"College."

He passes her, walks in the kitchen and opens the cupboards at random. Finally he finds glasses. Some are very large and he could almost take them for vases. The clue is the number of them. He fills one up and goes to find her still studying the decor. Wrapping her hands around the glass he tells her to drink up. She doesn't want to, but he keeps encouraging her until it's all gone. 

When he accepts the glass back, she tries to sit down on an armchair. Flynn sweeps her up and holds her by the waist until she steadies and he can put the glass on the table. He walks her into her bedroom, directs her to sit on the bed. 

"Plan to undress me too?" she tries with a smirk but gets the buttons of her blazer stuck in her hair while attempting to remove her top. 

Flynn sighs. He pulls the rolled-up top back down, then untangles the button and the hair before unbuttoning and removing her jacket. He turns to hand her a t-shirt or a nightdress or a something which possibly isn't nightwear before she can get herself naked.

"Yeah. Got one rule on that. Only undress women who can undress themselves."

No need to be an asshole about it, she thinks. It's not like she is offering. It's not like she offers anyone anything anymore. 

It's not like anyone asks anymore. It's not like people think she's good for anything anymore. It's not like anyone wants to accept anything from her.

It's not like —. It's not like.

"Okay, I think we hit the teary stage," he murmurs closer than she thought. She doesn't look up from behind the hair. The hand on her shoulder feels horrible. Too much and so much too little. 

He crouches down and gathers her in his arms. "Everything's gonna be okay. Okay?" 

She wants to nod so so bad. Instead she manages a strangled laugh-sob noise he thinks funny.

"You're great," he whispers.

He's still an asshole. A warm, sympathetic asshole. A very comfortable asshole.

It's not like, it's not like.


	4. Saturday, 2:58 a.m.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'm super not-confident about this chapter. It's something I've never written before, so it might be... totally horrible. 
> 
> If it is, skip on to the next chapter and just know this happened. Or tried to.
> 
> (Next chapter might be a while, tho. Haven't really decided what it'll be.)

She dreams weird. 

Since she was a kid her dreams were always yellow and warm and slow. Summer full of heat and sound and scent. Dust and gravel. Not once or twice had she walked through fields of corn or sunflowers. Every building feels like a farmhouse. 

Even the clothes people wear in her dreams are strange. Casual. Sometimes she goes through periods of women in dresses of fifties' housewives. Usually they are in cotton sundresses or shorts or plain jeans. Men usually dress in jeans and t-shirts. Though too often she's had the odd work-related dream with bare-chested colleagues. 

Those are the mornings she wakes up feeling disconcerted. 

Otherwise the dreams calm her. That's how she imagines summer in the South. She's never been, but the image somehow resonates with some intangible idea her heart has. Intellectually she knows that's not South. Still she dreams, fully convinced it is. 

Especially after she met someone who fit right in with her bouncy blonde hair and floral dresses. Almost as well as the nameless made-up characters there always was. 

For a moment after she got to know Brenda, she hoped her dreams would change. That Brenda would somehow make her brain run away from juvenile storybook images of the South. If for no other reason than to get her male colleagues to wear clothes. 

No such luck, they kept to their familiar pattern. 

Like now, she wakes up in a foreign house. It looks like every house she's ever been in her dreams. The air smells of magnolia and twelve different flowers she can't pick out. Since the colors can't tell her much she relies on sounds. The windows are open, so the sounds and the heat carries well. It's about sunset.

Everything is that familiar yellow. The bed feels overly soft, overly yellow and overly fluffy. Her naked skin dries from sweat; the arm brushing the undersides of her breasts feels neither sticky or stifling. It glides.

This is South. Even the plaid dress thrown over the footboard looks Southern. The bra over it too floral, too young, too fun, too push-up. She scrunches her nose in distaste. Her dreams might be Southern, but her taste is not. 

Even the throw over the sheet is yellow knit. It moves against her chest. Except it isn't a throw as much as it is hair. Long, blond, curly hair. 

She'd freak out about it, if it weren't for the fingers unceremoniously slipping inside of her. 

Then sweaty breath coats her ear followed by a wide Southern drawl.

"I can't believe you're hot again, Ronnie."

Her eyes snap open as if someone rolled up the projector canvas. 

Okay. Weird dreams, yes. But... They never went there before. Sure she's had the odd dream of kissing women, but to sleep with one and to be all that domestic and familiar seems odd. Odder still when it's Brenda. Brenda in a Southern bedroom in Southern sheets. Not wearing her Southern dress and silly Southern floral bras. She laughs, aloud. 

Being drunk feels good right about now. Sleepy, careless, warm. She's drunk enough not to freak out over sexual dreams about female colleagues. And not drunk enough not to find it funny. Yes, this was what she needed. And with any luck, she won't remember any of this in the morning. 

Content, she rolls on the other side and snuggles tighter in her sheets. 

It's dark behind her eyes. The house is silent. Crickets, maybe, outside. Faint.

There's a half-full bottle of peach schnaps on the table. Uncorked. A shot glass stands on the side. As soon as she takes a shuffling half-step from the doorway, the blonde slides the glass closer and picks up the bottle. She moves smoothly, but there's a clink of glass against glass. 

"I thought you wouldn't come."

Come where? She's dressed in jeans and a pale blue shirt that's worn to almost see-through. It's hot and she feels like she's been in the sun. She doesn't belong here. Yet she doesn't feel like she's invited or even welcomed. Expected, sure. 

Quietly she crosses across the small kitchen with a white tile floor. The wood is dark hardwood, maybe mahogany. Maybe an imitation. The kitchen looks like eighties eclectic with faded floral curtains and worn counters. The fridge is smudgy white with rounded corners. She pulls out the other chair at the small table set in the middle of the floor.

It's quiet, only the hum of electricity and a ceiling fan. Usually the crickets are loud.

"The mint is in the fridge."

Sharon turns to glance behind her. The door of the fridge is now see-through. On the top shelf awaits a bottle of mint schnaps.

"You like things ice cold, don't cha?"

'Don't cha'? What the hell is that. 

"For heaven's sake, Ronnie, do something!"

She does. She gets up, rounds the table, and kisses her. Not like first kisses, not like friends, not like anything. Heated, mad, devouring lips against lips, around lips. Like eating a person alive, starting with their mouth.

Sharon sees herself doing that like she was still standing in the doorway. Yet, she is doing that with closed eyes and fervent action. The Sharon watching — or should it be just 'Sharon', since the protagonist seems to be this woman called Ronnie? — flushes with prim embarrassment and morbid curiosity. Academically she knows you can do that, but she didn't know she could do that. 

Neither did Brenda, it seems.

"That's more like it," she pants and laughs when Ronnie lets her go.

Ronnie nonchalantly walks back around the table, all the way to the fridge. She remains completely unaffected, her breathing almost back to normal the minute their lips part. The fridge opens with an old-world creak as she takes out the iced mint spirit. She pours herself a shot. Barely one finger's worth. 

When her lips are on the glass, Brenda's are on her neck. When she swallows, she bites. Brenda's hands go under that flimsy baby blue shirt, slide straight over her stomach and onto her breasts. Her fingers pick up a kneading rhythm, almost like playing a harp with vigor.

"Didn't your mama teach you not to wear black underthings with pale colors?" she asks between nips travelling from Sharon's collar to her ear. "Makes you look easy."

Whatever counterargument Sharon might have had gets lost in a moan. Teeth dragging on her earlobe and the fingers finding her clit are a bit distracting. Between Brenda's left hand digging into her breast and the right digging into her snatch all she manages is a firm grip of the counter in front.

"But then again you're easy. Aren't you, Ronnie?"

Again Sharon can see herself in the arms of another woman. She is lost to the world and the speed with which it happened astounds, annoys and terrifies her. Especially when she sees Brenda rip two of her shirt buttons open, deftly bringing out one black satin covered breast. One neat movement of her wrist spills flesh up and out over the cup. An aroused nipple is left begging for touch.

At that moment Sharon knows she looks easy and sounds even easier. Even before that mewl born of Brenda's right hand pinching her between the legs.

"I asked you a question. Aren't you, Ronnie?"

"Yes. Yes!" Thanks to two rolling circles that nipple begs no more. "Yes," she breathes along the satisfying tingle of blood rushing to her nearly neglected nipple.

"Good," Brenda says and draws her fingers away.

Saving Sharon from sounding even needier, Brenda's hands find their way on her hips, gently tugging her around. Seeing that determined look, pink pursed lips and bouncy blonde ponytail makes her unsure — makes Ronnie and Sharon be one. 

Brenda doesn't care. She unbuttons, then unzips the jeans separating her and what that determined gaze wants. Her hands push into the front pockets and the jeans start slipping down.

Sharon grabs her wrist.

"I can't."

Maybe it's a bit late humming there in near-orgasm, with one breast hanging out, with the painted lips of another woman inches away from a blood-rushed nipple. 

That's probably what Brenda thinks since her eyes take the scenic route to meet Sharon's. The tongue wetting her upper lip almost sucks another needy 'yes' out of Sharon.

"You can, if you wanna. Anything you wanna," she says like the easiest thing in the world. "So," she drawls waiting for arguments, "do y'wanna?"

Sharon only offers a serious nod. 

"Good," Brenda's lips say against Sharon's. Then, under one line, they travel from the corner of her mouth down her neck, over her chest and land dead center where Sharon just imagined them. There, after a small suck, lips give way to wet tongue laving a path down curved flesh right to the underside where satin meets skin. Brenda's quick tickle of back and forth licks serve to remind just how on offer Sharon is. 

Brenda tugs her down on the floor beside the table. While Brenda just melts into a kneel, Sharon has to arrange herself. She isn't even done when Brenda is already pushing her to lie back and fighting with the skinny jeans. They open, barely low enough to be below Sharon's bum. It's enough. Next on the agenda is pushing both of Sharon's breasts on the open. That takes only one push from the heel of Brenda's hand. 

She lies there, on a strange kitchen floor, in a half-open shirt with her breasts on display in the frame of a still-closed black bra, all movement restricted by unzipped jeans hanging on to her upper thighs. Faced with that lusty look staring down she doesn't care one bit. 

Brenda leans over as to inspect the setting. Her hands move to grope a breast like this is just an experiment, like Sharon isn't there but for her breasts. Just when the grips start to feel uncomfortable, something changes making Sharon flush with excitement and thrum with pleasure. Dexterous fingers knead into swollen flesh, flat palms push and ghost tender nubs.

When she arches the first time, Brenda straddles her thigh. On the second, she lets their bodies meet. On the third — when Sharon's opens in a gasp — she takes her lower lip between teeth and lets the left hand intertwine with Sharon's right. The right hand finds its place just inside the waistband of Sharon's panties. 

Brenda attacks Sharon shoulder with lips and teeth. Her hair flops across Sharon's eyes. Despite the sensations on her skin, despite the hair blinding her, Sharon feels something wrong with their intertwined hands. She raises them and when Brenda turns to her neck, she sees their rings rubbing together. Their wedding rings.

She freezes. Stares. 

Why would she ever wear Jack's ring? 

She brings the hands closer for a better look as Brenda slaps her clit.

"Pay attention." 

She is! She is really paying attention. 

To their rings, though. 

Except, it's not their rings. Yes, Brenda's ring is Brenda's ring. But hers... It's clean, brushed platinum with diamond cut something. She brings the hands even closer. It's... It looks like a shield on top of handcuffs.

"Oh, for heaven's sakes, Ronnie. Can't you stop for a minute?" 

"I—"

She doesn't know what to do.

Luckily, Brenda does. She slips her right hand further, starts stroking Sharon back to the point where she was before the rings. She uses gentle tickles and just the pads on Sharon's opening to distract. The moment her mind drifts, Brenda slips their hands apart and drags Sharon's fingers to her lips. She kisses the tips, one by one. Then, with a meaningful look she takes the ring finger deep inside her mouth. 

Sharon watches Brenda gently undulating on top of her, stroking her arousal with two fingers, sucking and slobbering on her finger. Then Brenda lets go of her hand and brings her wet mouth to her lips. Instead of a kiss, Brenda runs her tongue on Sharon's parted lips. Just the tip, and then it's gone. Sharon tries to follow but she can only see a minute glint of light on something before it's hidden by pink lips and blond hair. 

In one move Brenda's hand sweeps the hair away from her face and then reaches to the table for some leverage. The palm of her hand pushes hard against Sharon's sex.

Sharon's wet hand lands on the tiles and it doesn't make a sound. She glances over, the ring is gone. She turns her eyes back to Brenda.

Did she just swa—

"Do you like me, Ronnie?"

The question seems strange. Especially while she feels two fingers petting her inner walls. She wants to comment on that, but can't find her voice. She tries to answer, but there are no words. She can only whimper. A desperate, needy, almost animalistic keening.

"Good," she laughs and Sharon's mouth is filled with something sticky and sickly sweet. She tries to fight it with shaking her head to and fro, one hand pushing Brenda away, the other hand wrapping in those blonde curls dragging them almost inside her own breast. They turn into sticky honey, she can't free herself. Panic rises. Her heart bounds. To her throat. Through her chest. Brenda shushes her, over and over and there are lips and fingers and she can't escape and —

Violently she comes to to her silky smooth sheets wrapped around her arms, sticky with sweat. Her hands are tucked under the pillows and she drools on strands of her own hair. Great. 

She sighs, frees an arm and rolls over on her back kicking the sheets as far down as she can. The heat emanating from her skin is almost visible. Her head pounds. Her heart pounds. The room is too small. The sheets too warm. And the beige, the beige is entirely too yellow.

The air stings her eyes.

And no one ever calls her 'Ronnie'. Ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you made it this far... Despite this reading like gratuitous smut, there is a point, I swear. Kinda. Sorta. Really.


End file.
